"I'm glad your hair's just that
blonde, and soft, Sophy. I couldn't possibly be engaged to a woman
who didn't have hair like yours."
I looked at his, and said with conviction:
"How absurd! Black hair is incomparably more beautiful!"
His eyes danced.
"Sophy!" said he, in a thrilling whisper, "Sophy, _The Author's hair
is brindle_!"
I got up and incontinently left him. And I saw with stern joy how
Mrs. Scarboro again seized upon and made him listen to tales of his
grandfather, until in desperation he fled to the piano, and played
Hungarian music with such effect that even The Author was moved to
rapture.
"Jelnik!" said The Author, enthusiastically, "I shall put you in my
next book. Gad, man, what a magnificent scoundrel I shall make of
you!" A remark which scandalized Mrs. Scarboro and startled my dear
old lady, but didn't phase Mr. Jelnik.
I found myself growing more and more confounded and confused. Was I,
or wasn't I, engaged to a man who had never asked me to marry him?
In the vernacular, I didn't know where I was at any more.
Alicia added to this confusion.
"Sophy," said she, some time later, "isn't it just possible you
misunderstood Mr.
Pages:
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333